The Time After
by GentleReader
Summary: Sequel to "The Time Between"; follows Quinn and Puck through the "Back 9" episodes, as they negotiate their relationship and face some tough decisions. **Chapter 8, "Theatricality," is finally up!**
1. Power of Madonna, Part One

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own Glee.

**A/N: **Well, it's pretty tough times right now if you're a Quick shipper. Their storyline has been largely shunted to the side, but even so, we seem to be getting completely opposite messages: Puck and Quinn are a couple/Puck's a player on the hunt. So here's my attempt to provide some kind of coherent storyline for them, which I'm hoping to continue through the back 9. For now, it follows canon, but it might well go AU, depending on where the next few episodes take us.

In any case, hope you enjoy!

**The Time After**

**Power of Madonna, Part One**

If _Labor Pains_ hadn't been so awful, things might have turned out differently.

It was Saturday night. Quinn came home from work at 5:00 to find Puck in her room, arranging pizza and salad on the tiny table. "Wait!" he called as she reached for the light switch. A small flame flickered into life…had he actually brought a _candle_?

"I swiped it from my mom's bathroom," he shrugged, as the too-sweet scent of candy apple filled the room. "Ugh—that totally _reeks_!" Blowing it out, he turned on the lamp. "So much for atmosphere."

Quinn repressed a giggle at his romantic attempt…then proceeded to inhale two helpings of salad and three slices of pizza, before sinking back into the futon in exhaustion.

Puck looked at her, hands crossed over her swollen stomach. "Impressive."

She rolled her eyes. "Give me a break. Before I got pregnant, I hadn't eaten pizza since I was ten. It's not exactly on the Sue Sylvester Approved Diet." Wiping her greasy fingers on a napkin, she mused, "I had forgotten how incredible junk food really is."

"Hey, watch yourself, Blimpette—this isn't junk! Rigali's makes the best pizza in Lima. Not low-fat, though, that's for damn sure."

Quinn opened her mouth to retort when a yawn overtook her. Putting her feet up on the table, she closed her eyes. "Whatever."

He held up a DVD case. "Wanna christen your TV?"

Over the past few weeks, Quinn had often come home to find a new (or somewhat used) creature comfort adorning her room: a clock radio, a fan, even a dorm-sized refrigerator, into which Puck snuck a seemingly endless supply of beer. Then there was the TV (white, with a 13-inch screen)—but until he could figure out how to steal cable for her, they had to rely on the built-in DVD player for entertainment.

(Quinn had no idea where any of these items came from, and she was, frankly, too afraid of the answer to inquire. In truth, Puck had only "borrowed" the clock radio, from the delivery platform at Best Buy. The other things he had found cruising various garage sales while she was at work.)

They settled in, her head pillowed on his shoulder, as the opening credits rolled. Thirty minutes of bad jokes and even worse acting later, Puck's shoulder nudged her cheek. "You awake?"

"Mmmm…"

"Wanna make out, or just go to sleep?" His careless tone made her laugh in spite of her fatigue. She gave him a shove, and he ended up flat on the futon, her head on his chest.

"Make out, then?" He pulled her along his body so their faces were inches apart and she fit snugly along the back of the futon.

Up to now, Quinn had been insistent that they confine their makeout sessions—which were rare anyway, since she was so tired—to kissing. She wasn't completely comfortable in her burgeoning body; and every time they started something the baby kicked—it was too weird, thinking of her rolling around in there while the two of them…well.

But tonight was somehow different. Maybe it was his thoughtfulness, gross candle and all. Maybe it was the bracelet, hanging lightly on her wrist, that he had given her a few days before. Or maybe it was just that, suddenly, kissing him felt so damn good…and feeling so damn good had been pretty rare in the last five months.

Whatever the reason, tonight they crossed one line…then another…and another. Their shirts were tangled in a heap on the floor, her bra was undone, and Puck was trailing his tongue down her shoulder. She was hot, liquid, breathless; she could feel him straining against the thin cotton of her Capri pants; she wrapped one leg around him, needing _something_, needing _him…_

Then his hands went to her hips, tugging at her elastic waistband. She laced her fingers through his, which diverted him for a minute; but then he was back on the offensive and she knew they had to stop.

"Wait!" she gasped.

He didn't seem to hear. "God, you taste so—"

"Puck—" she breathed. Then, more urgently, "PUCK!"

"What?" He bent his head to nuzzle one breast. She pushed him away, and he finally caught on. "What?"

"We can't—" She straggled up on one elbow, clasping her bra.

"Why? What is it? Did I hurt you? The baby—"

"No—I just—we have to stop."

Puck brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and pulled her back down to him. "We don't," he murmured against her lips. "We don't have to stop."

"We _do_. I don't want—"

"You don't _want_ to?" He glanced down at their hips, still locked together. His voice was low, teasing. "I think you do…c'mon, babe—what's the problem?" He ran his hand up her bare arm, teased kisses along her neck. "We're already in trouble…might as well enjoy it."

Quinn wasn't used to this kind of pressure. When she said no, she meant no, and guys always backed off. (That one night with him? She hadn't said no. She hadn't said anything at all…just offered herself, silently.) Even Puck had been respectful up to now…of course, she hadn't let things go this far before; she could still feel the heat of him, still see the wanting that darkened his eyes.

And the worst of it was—she loved it. She loved knowing he wanted her, loved the feel of his bare chest under her fingers, loved hearing the low moan in his throat when she moved against him.

But she hadn't thought this through the first time around, and look where it had gotten her. No. Next time—if there was a next time—it would be because it was right, not because she was insecure or fed up or slightly (not really) drunk. She deserved better.

They both did.

Grabbing her tunic off the floor, she put it on. He heaved a frustrated sigh and followed suit.

"Let's call it a night. I'm really tired," she said softly.

Puck was not happy. "I never knew a pregnant girl could be such a tease."

"Don't be a jackass!"

"Fine." But he stalked to the door.

The aggravated look he gave her as he turned to go smote her heart. "This isn't still about that Jesus-freak, Celibacy Club bullshit, is it? I mean, they _kicked you out_, Quinn—they abandoned you. Why the hell d'you still want to live by their rules?"

"It isn't that—"

But he had already slammed the door behind him.

It wasn't that, really. She could see the hypocrisy in it, in her father's religious life: raising money for schools in Mexico, and making bigoted comments about Latinos at the dinner table; preaching about your body being a temple, and drinking yourself into a stupor; trumpeting "Christian charity" while you kicked your daughter out of the house.

But she still wore her cross. She still prayed. She believed those stories in the Bible, about Jesus healing the lepers and calling the little children to Him. Her God saw what she had done, knew she made a mistake…but He still loved her, still had a place for her, still believed she could make things right again.

Making things right meant being true to herself. And true to what she and Puck could, maybe, be together.

She just needed Puck to understand that.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

Thanks for reading...reviews and suggestions are VERY much appreciated!


	2. Power of Madonna, Part Two

**A/N: **Sorry for the delay in posting …after "Laryngitis," I'm really wrestlng with where to take this. We may be off to AU-land a lot sooner than I'd planned!

On a side note, I've read a few fics that assume Quinn is Catholic. However, I don't think that's been specified on the show itself, so I've gone with what I think fits her history best.

**Power of Madonna, Part Two**

It was ironic, really, that Rachel brought up the subject the following Monday.

Quinn was absorbed in the caricature she was drawing. She felt Rachel's hurt glance, but she didn't really care. Since her fall from grace, Quinn had found herself being much nicer to the other Glee girls (apart from Santana, to whom "nice" equaled "weak and useless"). It was kind of a relief to drop her Cheerios persona; sometimes, bitchiness could be exhausting.

Except when it came to Rachel.

As Quinn's social value had plummeted, Rachel's had slowly risen. She hadn't been slushied in more than a week; she apparently had not one, but _two_, good-looking and talented boys pursuing her. (And if Rachel's entanglement with Jesse St. James was only "hypothetical," Quinn would eat her notebook.)

Then there was the small fact that Rachel had been the architect of her destruction. Or at least, like, the head contractor or something. Sure, Quinn had told Rachel at the time that she wasn't angry, but come on, she was a disowned pregnant teenager—surely she had the right to a little delayed fury?

Rachel's voice cut across her thoughts: "How do I stop a guy from getting mad at me for saying no?"

Queen Bee Quinn would've known exactly what to do: tell him scornfully that you'd pray for his sinning soul, shove him out the door, and refuse to speak to him until he crawled back to you, Purity Pledge in hand.

Knocked-Up Quinn hated to admit it…but she was wondering the same thing.

-0-0-0-

She had hoped that Saturday night's spat would blow over. In fact, she half expected to find a little basket of latkes or something outside her door on Sunday morning, with a note along the lines of "Sorry I was such a jerk." But no.

His truck was gone when she went down to the kitchen.

"Looking for Noah?" Mrs. Puckerman asked. "Someone called this morning, and off he went."

"He took his guitar, too!" Jenna piped up.

"Do you want me to send him up when he gets back?"

Quinn had too much pride to admit she was looking for him. She grabbed a protein bar and said brightly, "Oh—no—I was just leaving, actually. Off to…um, church."

It came out before she could think, but on reflection, she decided it was a good idea. She had noticed the sign—"South Lima Fellowship of God/All are Welcome!"—just the other day. Made of plastic, with moveable letters, it was stuck in the front lawn of a weatherbeaten building with a large front porch. It couldn't have been more different than the steel and glass complex that made up Faith Now!, the massive evangelical church the Fabrays had attended for the last ten years.

But the peeling light-blue paint and black shutters somehow seemed inviting, so, gathering her courage, Quinn made her way up the steps and into the sanctuary. An usher greeted her, helped her to a seat. The two rows of polished wooden pews were about three-quarters full, and a few people turned at her entrance. But no one looked shocked at or offended by the young girl in maternity clothes…no one pointed her out as a sinner or demanded she prostrate herself on the altar to beg forgiveness.

_Peace be with you._

_And also with you._

_Lift up your hearts._

_We lift them up to the Lord._

Quinn leaned her head back, letting the call-and-response wash over her. The service itself was quiet, compared to what she was used to: TV monitors everywhere; a sharp-dressed preacher declaring in ringing tones that "The Holy Spirit is he-ere!"; a choir eighty voices (including hers) strong. Here, there was a short sermon—Luke 11:35, "See to it, then, that the light within you is not darkness"—they sang a few selections out of the worn hymnals, the offering plate was passed, and that was it.

Quinn left a little lighter. For an hour, she'd been taken out of the place where she had to worry about school, her parents, Puck, the baby…her present and her future. She could just…be.

It was a nice feeling. One that, unfortunately, didn't last.

Puck was just getting out of his truck when she pulled up to the house. "Nice dress," he commented, swinging his guitar out of the back. "What's the occasion?"

"I went to church." She wasn't sure whether to be friendly or aloof—was he still angry?

He laughed bitterly (guess so). "Oh, right." Then, in a mincing falsetto, "Forgive me, Father, for I let him take my shirt off!"

All her peacefulness deserted her. "I'm not Catholic, Puck," she bit out. "And I didn't go because of—" She was going to say "last night," but changed her mind. "You know what? It doesn't matter why I went. You don't care about what I think or how I feel—you only care about your stupid 'needs'!"

They were standing in the pathway between the house and the garage. Puck glanced at his sister's open window and lowered his voice. "That's not true. Who d'you think has been out five days a week, trying to drum up more pool business so I can pay for our kid?" He kicked at one of the paving stones. "C'mon, Quinn, I'm trying to be a good guy, here."

She sighed. "I know you are."

"And is it so wrong for me to think—I mean, you got me all hot, and the bra off and everything—do you know what it does to a guy, when you just stop like that?"

"You think it was easy for me to say no?"

He crossed his arms. "I dunno—you've sure had enough practice."

"Right. Too bad I didn't say it the one time it _counted_," she snapped.

That arrow hit its mark. Puck's eyes glazed over with hurt; maybe she'd gone too far.

"I'm sorry." She tried to touch his hand. "I'm just not ready."

"Well, I am." He turned and walked into the house, without looking back.

-0-0-0-

"This week, your assignment is to come up with a Madonna number."

_Been there, done that_, thought Quinn sourly.

There was a collective gasp of excitement from the rest of the group; Mercedes high-fived Tina, and Kurt could barely contain his joy. Puck was quick to protest, however. "I'm still not down. No chick intimidates Puckzilla. I just don't think her music translates to show choir."

Quinn glanced at him, wondering if he, too, was remembering a certain duet they'd shared.

_Papa don't preach_

_I'm in trouble deep_

_Papa don't preach_

_I've been losin' sleep_

_But I've made up my mind_

_I'm keepin' my baby…_

She thought of the rising sense of hope she'd had that night, and the sparky, sexy feeling of his eyes on her while she sang. He wanted to be with her; it was in his smile, and the conviction in his voice: "This parenting thing? We can _do_ this."

And yet all the while, he'd been sexting Santana.

He cared—she knew that. He'd done so much for her, for them, in the past few weeks. But did he _love_ her?

Once again, it was as if Rachel read her thoughts.

_Don't go for second best, baby_

_Put your love to the test_

_You know, you know, you've got to_

_Make him express how he feels_

_And maybe then you'll know your love is real_

Strutting around the stage in her turquoise corset, she felt powerful again. She let the music flow through her, and she focused her performance on him, trying to let him know what she needed.

They locked eyes, and she watched his expression go from surprised (he probably didn't think she could still move like that) to skeptical to…proud, maybe? In any case, she thought she'd made an impression; when they finished, she threw a flirty smile over her shoulder at him.

She heard, later, that Finn had told the boys to "make things right" with the girls. Suddenly, Artie and Tina were cozier than ever; Finn had bowed out of the race for Rachel; she even saw Mr. Schue in Miss Pillsbury's office, looking contrite.

So she waited, for Puck to come to her. And waited. And waited.

Finally, she faced up to what she needed to do. She watched at her window until he pulled into the driveway, and then went down the stairs.

"Puck!"

He turned, startled to see her there in the soft evening light. She held out the bracelet to him.

"What's this?"

She blinked back a tear or two. "I don't think this is working out."

"You and me?"

"You and me."

Closing his hand over the bracelet, he shook his head. "Is this because I didn't get down on my knees and grovel to you about how sex doesn't matter and I'd wait forever and shit?"

"No." Well, sort of. But not really. "I've just been thinking about it, and…you want something that I can't give you right now. And I want something that you—" She dashed a hand across her eyes and took a breath. "I don't want to argue with you about where your hands can be or how much of our clothes we can take off. I can't deal with that right now—I have to concentrate on me, and what I'm going to do. I'm sorry."

Her honesty seemed to temper his anger. Gruffly, he asked, "You gonna stay here?"

She nodded. "If that's OK with you."

"Yeah." He looked up at the fading sky. "This sucks."

"I know," she said miserably.

He stood there for a minute, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders slumped. He turned to go—

"Puck," she said again. "She's still yours…you can still—be a part of it, of deciding what to do, I mean. If you want to."

Slowly, he pulled one hand out of his pocket, took hold of her wrist, and put the bracelet back on it.

"But—"

"She's still yours, too, Quinn."

As she climbed the stairs, she hoped—she really hoped—she was doing the right thing.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

Thanks for reading and reviewing! Next up: "Home," from Puck's POV.


	3. Home

**A/N: **So here are the events of "Home," presented from Puck's perspective. Please forgive the shift to first-person, present tense...when I sit down to write Puck, I can hear his voice in my head (I should probably see somebody about that), and I just scramble to get it all on paper. Yep, I'm just the conduit, folks. ;)

Thank you to all my reviewers-your feedback is enormously helpful!

**Chapter Three: Home**

So she dumped me.

After all the bullshit last semester, all the baby-daddy drama, the waiting for her to wake up and realize Finn's not the guy for her…and she dumps me because she doesn't want to be pressured into having sex.

I wouldn't have pressured her.

Much.

OK, I probably would've. But can I help it? First of all, I'm a _guy_, which automatically means I want it all the time (except when my mom starts crying. Then I'm like, "OK, God. I'll never do it again—just let her be happy, wouldja?"). Second of all, unlike most of the other losers in this school, I'm actually used to getting it on a fairly regular basis. (Thank you, Puck's Pool Cleaning & Service.)

But mostly? It's 'cause being with Quinn is like nothing (and nobody) I've ever done. There's something about the way her eyes go from icy green to this hot mossy color…the way her skin smells, like peaches…this little catch she gets in her breath when I kiss her neck. It's freakin' amazing.

(The one time we actually did it? Not quite so amazing. I was—and this NEVER happens to me—kinda overexcited and she was—well, she was into it, but I know it must've hurt.

I wish there could've been a second time. I would've done everything to rock her world.)

This sucks.

She's still living at my house. That part's good—I wouldn't want her and Puckette out in the streets—but it means I have to see her every morning. And every night I have to look at the light in her window, knowing she's up there, probably studying, her hair loose over her shoulders and her pencil eraser resting on her bottom lip (lucky eraser).

I still sit next to her in Glee, too. We decided to keep the breakup quiet for now; we've given people enough to Twitter about lately, and I don't want to deal with Schizo Santana. I swear on my guitar, that girl is never again getting a piece of the Puck. Plus, the other day I caught Jacob ben Israel looking at Quinn like she was a fresh cherry blintz. If that asswipe so much as walks by her with his Jewfro all gelled up, he's taking an express trip to the Chosen Land—right through the bottom of the Dumpster.

Anyway, there's one person whose life sucks almost as much as mine right now: Finn. I mean, we don't really talk any more, but I can imagine. He spends three months stressing that he's gonna be a dad, when he's never got past second base with Quinn. Then he finds out that she let _me_ score a home run in the first inning. Oh, and lied about him being the father. He kinda falls for Berry, who goes all relationship-scary on him, so he dumps her. She hooks up with Broadway Bonehead, and he's left out in the cold. Again.

No wonder he banged Santana.

Yeah, I know he told Rachel that nothing happened. But trust me—if you go mano a mano with Lopez, you are _not_ gonna escape without giving up the goods, probably more than once. Girl's like Catwoman.

Anyway…wait a minute.

Looks like Finn just won the sucking jackpot. Apparently, his mom is getting down with Kurt's dad—ouch! And—

Holy crap. You are _not_ going to believe this.

Kurt is freaking _serenading_ him. In front of Mr. Schue. And everybody.

_A chair is still a chair, even when there's no one sittin' there  
But a chair is not a house and a house is not a home  
When there's no one there to hold you tight  
And no one there you can kiss goodnight_

I glance over at Finn—his mouth's wide open. Dude. _Are you gay?_

I know, I know…sometimes, I'm a jerk. I just can't help myself.

* * *

Later, I'm walking down the first-floor hallway when the door to the nurse's office opens, right into my stomach. I'm about to brain the idiot coming out when I realize that it's Quinn.

"Are you OK?" I ask, holding my gut.

"I'm fine." She moves to shut the door quickly, but not before I catch a glimpse of the black Glee girl inside.

"What's the deal with you and Aretha?"

Her eyebrows draw together; I know I'm pissing her off, but God, my abs still hurt. "Not that it's any of your business, but she fainted in the cafeteria."

I remember that Quinn had a few dizzy spells when she first found out she was pregnant. "Shit! She's not—" I mime a big stomach, and Quinn slaps my hands down.

"No, you idiot. She's been starving herself to lose weight. Coach Sylvester's orders."

"Jesus, that bitch needs to get some. So, what, you were playing Florence Nightingale?"

She looks at me like I'm a lost cause. "You know, every once in awhile, it actually feels good to help someone else, Puck. You should try it sometime."

Then she's gone, and I'm thinking, I don't want her to see me like that—like a selfish loser.

And maybe there _is_ someone who could use a little Pucksistance.

* * *

Finn and I have been friends since second grade. After my dad walked out (for the third, and last, time), we had to move to the other side of Lima. I ended up in Finn's class at Liberty Elementary.

I had been there a week when the teacher announced that next Friday would be Dad's Day. I hated those days—even when my dad was around, he was usually too high to show up.

All the kids were talking about it at lunch: "My dad's a doctor. He's gonna bring his stethoscope"; "My dad's a cop and he's coming in his squad car"; etc.

Then one blond, freckle-faced squirt asked, "So, New Kid, what about _your_ dad?"

I took a deep breath; I had played this game before. "What about him?"

"What's _he_ bringing?"

"Nothing—he can't come." I smirked around the table, making sure the girls were watching. "He's an _astronaut_. On a _mission_."

"Yeah, right," Freckle-face said through a bite of cheese sandwich (gross). "I don't believe you."

_Don't get mad_, I thought. If I lost my temper, it was game over. "He _is_, dipwad."

"No way. He's probably just some loser who doesn't want to be seen with another loser—_you_!" He laughed. Little bits of cheese flew out of his mouth…up until I slammed my fist into it.

When I finally came out of the principal's office, Finn was waiting for me. "You OK?" he asked.

I nodded—no way was I gonna cry.

"So, an astronaut, huh?"

I looked at him. He was sorta gangly, and definitely not the sharpest tool, but he seemed like my best shot at making a friend. I decided to come clean. "Nah. Musician."

"Hey, but that's totally cool! Does he play drums?"

"Lead singer."

"Where does he play? Could we, like, go see him?"

I shoved my hands in my pockets. "Well, he _used_ to play mostly in our garage. Now, I dunno." Finn had a weird look on his face, like he knew there was more to the story, so I explained. "He walked out on us a month ago."

"What—just like, left? That stinks."

"Yeah." I wasn't up for a pity party.

"My dad's not coming either, y'know," he said quietly, scuffing the ground with his sneaker.

Now it was my turn to wonder. "Why not?"

You could tell he was trying to be casual, but his face scrunched up anyway. "He died." Then he went on in a rush: "It was a long time ago—I was just a baby. I'm not, like, sad about it anymore."

I wanted to be that tough. "Yeah—me neither."

Of course, we were both totally lying.

* * *

To be honest, I don't really know which is worse: having a dead dad, or a dead_beat_ one. I mean, Finn's never gonna get to know his dad; he's missed all of Finn's football and basketball games; he won't be there when Finn graduates or gets married or has his own kid.

Finn doesn't have any good memories of his dad—any memories at all, actually. But at least he doesn't have any bad ones. Finn'll never think back on his father being in a bad mood because he didn't get a gig. He'll never have to remember opening the door to the garage, nearly choking on the too-sweet smoke, and seeing his dad kissing the girl from next door. He won't picture his baby sister, crying, crying, crying in her crib, until he finally picks her up himself.

Finn's dad will always be a hero to him.

Wish I could say the same.

* * *

I finally catch up with Finn in the locker room before basketball practice. He glances up as I come in, and shuts his locker a lot harder than he needs to. He's practically out the door before the slam stops echoing.

"Finn!" I call.

He stops, but doesn't turn around. "What?"

"I'm, um, sorry about before. In Glee."

He just nods.

"I mean, your mom and Hummel's dad? That's gotta make for some weird family dinners."

He pushes me up against the lockers before I can even blink. "Don't make fun of me!"

"Hey—chill! I'm not making fun of you, I swear." Finn steps back, and I pull at my shirt where he's grabbed it. "So…d'you want me to rumble him for you?"

"Who—Kurt? Are you nuts?"

"No, not Juicy Fruit. The dad. _Duh_."

Oops—he looks pissed again (still). "If I wanted to punch him, I could do it myself."

"And get grounded for the rest of your life? At least he doesn't know who _I_ am. But OK, no physical stuff. How 'bout I key his car? Put Mentos in his battery fluid? Dude, that makes a _wicked_ mess."

Finn shakes his head. "You are such a psycho."

That sorta stings—I'm not psycho, I'm _badass_. "Just tryin' to help, Brady Bunch."

"Yeah, well, thanks but no thanks." He sits down on a bench, spinning a basketball in his hands. "My mom hasn't really dated anybody since that Darren guy. I guess I kinda forgot what it was like." He pauses. "What about your mom? Is she, like, going out and stuff?"

I can't help but laugh. "_My_ mom? She's still totally screwed up from my dad. Her idea of a rockin' Saturday night is playing Bananagrams with my sister."

"Our dads really left a mess behind them, didn't they?"

Um, hello? There's a little difference between going off to war and disappearing because you "felt too tied down." "Finn—your dad _died_. For our _country_."

He passes me the ball. "Yeah. Sometimes I wish he had been a little more selfish. I wish he'd _lived_—for _me_."

I hear you, bro.

* * *

So now I'm in assembly, waiting for the Cheerios to launch into another one of their robots-on-speed routine, when the black Glee girl (damn! Her name starts with M, I think. Or N.) comes up to the microphone. I settle in for a good show—she's got some pipes, I tell you—but instead of singing, she asks us: "How many of you feel fat?"

Quinn raises her hand. _C'mon, Q, _I think. To me, she's still so goddamn gorgeous that it almost hurts.

But maybe she doesn't feel that way.

_I am beautiful no matter what they say  
Words can't bring me down  
I am beautiful in every single way  
Yes, words can't bring me down  
So don't bring me down today_

I watch Quinn walk over to Mercedes (aha!) and start to sing with her. And it hits me: we're all in the same boat here—me, Quinn, Finn, the Goth chick, even the A/V dweebs and the jocks. We're all trying to figure out who we are, and who we can be, no matter who's betrayed us or left us or picked on us.

I wish I could hold Quinn's hand, and tell her all the things I think she can be. But I can't, at least not right now. Instead, I get up and sing, too. I stand, off to the side, but still part of the group.

Just so she knows I'm there.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	4. Bad Reputation

**A/N: **I can't believe it's been nearly a month since I updated this…isn't it awful, how real life gets in the way of fan fic? :) Anyway, mucho *mwahs* to all of you who've reviewed and put this on alert. There is lots more coming, hopefully soon!

As you will no doubt notice, I have incorporated some dialogue from the actual episodes for continuity purposes.

Enjoy!

**Chapter Four: Bad Reputation**

_William McKinley High School, September 2009_

Red and white flash in unison. Sneakers squeak a syncopated rhythm on the polished wood as the group flips, jumps, leaps, lifts.

Then—silence. (Though the glare reflected off fifteen brilliantly blinding smiles makes its own statement.)

A perfect pyramid. And poised at the very top, a perfect cheerleader: blond hair smoothed into a high ponytail, green eyes sparkling, arms raised in victory.

She feels a wobble under her left foot, a tiny hesitation from the girl holding her up. Carefully, her smile never wavering, she presses the toe of her shoe down until the girl's fingers clench (possibly in pain).

Just a subtle reminder: Nobody drops Quinn Fabray.

_January 2010_

She navigates the crowded hallway, leaving a trail of audible whispers in her wake.

"Did you hear?"

"Yeah, but he's not the father—"

"She danced in a black dress—"

"With that stomach?"

"—kicked out of her house—"

Sighing, she opens her locker, hunts for her English notebook. Suddenly, he's there, arm slung over the locker door.

"How's my girls?" he asks, eyes traveling toward her baby bump.

"Puck, I'm not—"

"I know, I know," he interrupts, raising his hands in protest, "the whole 'independent' thing. But can't I walk my baby mama to class?"

They head to Room 134, his lean form curved toward her, dark eyes laughing at something she's said. She sees the others (especially the girls) watching them, noticing, wondering.

The whispers stop.

She holds her head a little higher, and smiles.

_March 2010_

Spring should have come a week ago, but it hasn't. Just inside the school doors, she steps into a puddle, the residue from 500 pairs of slushy snow boots.

Her own shoes—flimsy flats; she was feeling optimistic—fly out from under her, and she lands with a thump, water soaking through the back of her maternity leggings. Her bookbag slides across the floor; the notebook she was carrying flaps open, scattering a few loose pages.

She waits for the laughter. Or for someone (maybe him) to help her up.

But nobody laughs. And nobody (not even him) helps. People just keep walking and talking, stepping over and around her and her stuff.

Apparently, she's a ghost. She's nothing…the absence of a person.

She struggles to her feet, gathers the notebook and bag. Hair falling loose over her face, she soldiers on down the hall.

She's on her own now, just like she said she wanted to be.

It feels terrible.

_April 2010_

I'm. Still. Here. (With each word, she slaps the Glist onto a locker, a wall, a door.) Still. Me.

Finally, she stops—she's run out of copies. Hearing the _swish, dunk, swish_ of the custodian's mop behind her, she walks as fast as she can, around the corner and out the door by the Science wing.

Tomorrow, she'll once again be at the top of something. In a way that would have horrified her six months ago…but at the top, nonetheless. She'll be recognized, inspected, talked about.

And maybe things will change—a little. Maybe this empty feeling (how can she feel so empty, when she is, so literally, _full_?) will go away.

When he sees it, he'll think someone else did it, of course. Maybe he'll be mad; he knows (better than anybody) that she doesn't belong on that list…maybe he'll want to hunt the perpetrator down, defend her honor, prove that he's not going to let anybody say stuff like that about the mother of his child.

Of course, that's not what happens...

Santana, bored: "Why are we playing this game? We all know Puck did it."

"Back off—I didn't do squat!"

"Oh, yeah?" Tina demands. "Then why is your girlfriend number one on the Glist?"

(She winces at the "girlfriend" reference, but she doesn't think anybody notices.)

Rachel, as usual, is righteously indignant. "And why am I _last_? Aside from the fact that I wouldn't put out for you?"

"OK, enough. No one is accusing anyone of anything," Mr. Schue asserts. Then pauses. "Seriously, Puck, did you do it?"

"I said no! I'm a delinquent, sure—I like setting stuff on fire and beating up people I don't know. I _own_ that. But I'm not a liar." He _does_ look offended—but only at the accusation, not at the implications of the Glist.

So much for defending her honor.

* * *

She got it wrong.

People weren't talking about her, buzzing about the Glist; they merely pulled them off their lockers with a quizzical glance and shot them in the nearest trash can.

President of the Celibacy Club to (apparently) sex-crazed Gleek in six months…and it hardly even rated a shoulder shrug.

Nobody cared.

She was steaming her way to the cafeteria when Kurt caught up with her. "Listen, Quinn," he started. "Figgins is serious about ending Glee—Coach S. must have him in her pocket or something. So your _boyfriend_ had better fess up to this stupid Glist business—"

Disappointment made her bitter, and it came out before she could think. "He's NOT my boyfriend."

Kurt's blue eyes widened. Damn! Could she have picked a _worse_ person to tell? "Oh, dear," he sighed with mock sympathy, adjusting his messenger bag across one shoulder. "Has strife entered the nonmarital home? You and the fetus out on the street again?"

"I'm still living there…we're just not dating." She tried for a little of the old Quinn Fabray authority, poking him in his turquoise cravat. "Look, Liza, what's between Puck and me is nobody's business, OK?"

Patting her shoulder conspiratorially, he whispered, "I understand _completely_. Oh, is that the time? Must be off—I'm skipping fifth period; it was the only time my facialist could squeeze me in." He glided away on polished loafers, fingers tapping busily on his phone.

_Damn_, she thought again.

******-0-0-0-**

For the sake of counteracting the KurtWire, she walked out to the parking lot with Puck.

"I can't believe Tanaka made me scrub out those showers—übergross!"

"Maybe you shouldn't have coated Karofsky's locker in peanut butter," Quinn sighed, shifting her heavy tote.

Puck took it from her. "Douche has been flushing Artie's glasses—he deserved it!"

"His windpipe closed up, Puck!"

"How was I supposed to know he's allergic? Anyway, he's got nothin' to whine about. I shot him up with that freaky epi-thingy…eventually. Dude, blue is NOT his color."

Quinn rolled her eyes, but said nothing; what was the point? They were almost to her car when his phone beeped.

He scanned the message. "Huh…that's weird."

"What?"

"Nothing." His face closed in a way that made her nervous. She snatched the phone.

_Can u come over  
__at 4:00? Thx._

Her cheeks burned. "Another one of your _clients_? Needing a _service_?" She wasn't jealous; it was just disgusting, thinking of these old—

"No!" Puck grabbed the phone back. "Lay off, willya? It's just Berry."

Oh, for God's sake. Rachel again! Was she systematically trying to appropriate everything (and everyone) that was, or had been, Quinn's?

"Not that you care," Puck taunted.

She fixed him with her iciest glare. "If you want to spend the afternoon with Holly Hobbie, that's up to you. Maybe she'll let you rearrange her Care Bears." Climbing into the car, she nearly slammed the door on Puck's fingertips.

The next day, she sat in Mr. Schuester's office and lied, with perfect composure and a vicious sense of satisfaction. "It was Rachel. Let's face it, I'm kind of a bitch to her."

Mr. Schue didn't buy it.

******-0-0-0-**

Stretching her cramped legs out in front of her, Quinn glanced at the clock: 9:57. No sign of a certain dark gray truck. For the third night in a row.

No time to dwell on it, though; she still had five geometry proofs to do. Rifling through her notebook, she came upon the sketch she'd done two months ago.

God, she'd been stupid.

Had she really thought that Puck would be ready to be a father? That, somehow, they'd make it, juggling homework and no sleep and Glee and diapers and whatever miserable jobs they could find?

Ridiculous, she saw now. Puck was still such a..._boy..._sometimes, lapping up female attention and orchestrating stupid revenge pranks.

Not that she was a model of maturity herself. Hadn't she made the Glist because she was tired of being ignored? Tired of feeling like she'd had everything taken from her?

The baby deserved better.

She pulled the pamphlets out of the filebox where she'd thrown them after her last OB/GYN appointment: _Adoption in the State of Ohio_ and _Open Adoption: Is It Right for You?_

Her doctor had already given her a list of agencies, and she knew that Puck's mom thought they should give the baby up. (Her own parents, of course, were maintaining radio silence; she thought bitterly that they'd probably prefer a holy retribution scenario where mother and baby died tragically in childbirth.)

Adoption would make everything easier. She was due on the 25th of June; she could be back in shape—back in her old life—by fall…as if this whole miserable year never happened. Like a rock thrown into a lake that makes a huge splash…but then sinks, the water closing smoothly over it.

It was the right thing to do. The best thing to do.

So why did it hurt so much?

The shiny paper blurred, photos of hopeful-looking couples swimming in her watery vision. She threw the pamphlet down and collapsed on the desk, sobbing.

The little sketch family puddled and ran, borne away on a tide of inky tears.

**-0-0-0-**

In the end, Mr. Schuester figured out that she made the Glist…because, he said, she had "lost so much." He covered for her, of course; he was just that kind of teacher. And she felt a little better, hearing his vision of her future as the new-and-improved Quinn Fabray. (Even if something in her twisted at the thought of being alone in her body again.)

It was over. She couldn't fight anymore. When Rachel debuted her "Run Joey Run" video, she just sat, mutely accepting that her time was past. (She couldn't help the pang of hurt that danced across her face when she saw Puck, or the tiny burst of triumph she felt when Finn accused Rachel of using them all.)

And later, when Puck took her hand in his version of an apology, she let him. They left the choir room linked not by the shivery thrill of romance, but the raw weight of their unhappiness.

_Once upon a time I was falling in love  
__Now I'm only falling apart  
__Nothing I can do  
__Total eclipse of the heart_

**TO BE CONTINUED**

If you have the time, I'd love to hear your thoughts…thanks!


	5. Laryngitis

**Chapter Five: Laryngitis**

I feel like a damn cue ball. With 5 o'clock shadow.

I can't believe my mom sent me to Sweeney freakin' Todd over a little freckle. Anyway, by the time I get skin cancer, they'll totally have a cure for it.

God, the things she worries about-it's ridiculous. Ever since my dad took off, she has to have something to wig about: she wouldn't let me play in the sandbox at the park for a _year_ after they found dog poop in it. My sister's not allowed to eat those Sour Patch Kids because the acid will make her teeth fall out. Mom even stopped buying milk after she read some article about cows hopped up on hormones.

She says it'll grow back. Like hell! D'you know how long it takes to achieve this level of hair awesomeness? I started growing the 'hawk in eighth grade, when I decided that I might as well take advantage of the two good things my dad left me: his old Martin steel-string and his magic fingers (they're not just for the guitar, baby. Heh.).

The 'hawk (and the huge guns I've been working on since last year) has been key in my Quest to be Badass. It freaks dudes out, and chicks love it. I can't tell you how many times some cougar's run her fingers over it after we had sex...like it's lucky or something. Just give me Hammer pants and stuff me in a bottle, and I'll grant your three wishes.

But not anymore. Now I'm just another dipshit who looks like he accidentally ordered the Jarhead Cut at the barber shop. I need me some new mojo...and damn quick, too.

**-P-P-P-**

Black girl shot me down. (Yeah, I know: Mercedes. C'mon, I'm not stupid. That whole "whose-name-I-can't-remember-right-now" thing was just a joke meant to express my essential ego or some shit. Damn writers.)

Anyway, she apparently doesn't have a taste for long, tall Pucksicles. And it's not because she thinks Quinn and I are still an item; Hummel's spread the breakup news far and wide (come to think of it, I owe him a Dumpster Drop). No...it's because, according to her, we have nothing in common. She called me "pop" for Chrissakes. _Finn_ is pop. The Asshole Formerly Known as St. Berry is pop. _I'm_ rock'n'roll all the way...as she would know if she'd given me a chance to lay a little Stevie Ray on her.

But who says that's all I can be?

**-P-P-P-**

Operation Sammy Davis Jr. begins: I set my alarm for 10:30 on a Sunday morning. Jesus, who gets up this early? Oh-there's Quinn in a white dress, headed to her car.

Walking into the church, I feel a little weird. Not like I'm betraying my faith or anything; shit, it's been so long since I went to temple, I bet God's just psyched I showed up in any of his cribs. I feel weird because it's a sea of dark brown skin in here...not enough white people to make filling for an Oreo. At least I blend in better than most of the gringos, thanks to my Armenian grandfather.

These cats are pretty cool, though. They smile at me, show me to a seat, give me a program. Seriously-it's like a freakin' concert. Even when the dude in a purple robe starts preaching, it sounds like music: "Brooooothers and sisters, feeeeelll the coming of the Lord! Raaaiiiise your haaands and PRAISE his name!"

Then the singing starts, and you'd swear the roof was gonna lift off. Damn! No offense, Judaism, but it beats the hell out of endless chanting in a language I don't understand. (Yet another disappointment for my mom: I never made my Bar Mitzvah because I ditched Hebrew school so much; the rabbi told her I wouldn't be able to learn my torah portion in time.)

If you wanna be somebody  
If you wanna go somewhere,  
you better wake up and pay attention.  
(heeey)

So you think you've got the anwsers  
to all the lives ahead.  
Well in my mind I thought the same one time  
and I hear you spoutin' much talk about you not being there.  
Ain't no one telling you what to do.  
But attitude will catch up with you,  
and keep you from your destiny.

If you wanna be somebody  
If you wanna go somewhere,  
you better wake up and pay attention.  
When the time is now or never  
to make your dreams come true,  
you better wake up and pay attention.

I've been doing a little research. Sammy never had anything handed to him (hell, he was a black Jew with only one eye...talk about handicaps!); he worked, and he fought, and he kicked ass...but he stayed true to himself. Maybe I can do the same.

So I take my Rat Pack self back to Glee and wow Miss Mercedes with a rockin' version of _Lady is a Tramp_. She loves it-they all love it, matter of fact. Afterward, Mercedes is looking at me like she's never met me before (in a _good_ way), and I know it's in the bag. I take her to an orchard party, hold her hand, get her a drink. Kiss her in the back of my truck (she tastes sweet but bold, like maple syrup. Not like Quinn, who smells like strawberries but tastes...like fresh air and flowers and something more).

It's all good.

**-P-P-P-**

I'm walking down the hall on Monday and I see Mercedes heading to Quinn's locker. I almost turn into the first empty classroom-not getting in the middle of _that_ situation-when I hear Quinn say, "Go for it. Look, I screwed up by letting Puck get me pregnant. He's an idiot and his mother won't let me eat bacon. I'm stuck living with him right now, but at least, if you guys are dating, I won't have to spend so much time listening to his insane theories on how Super Mario Brothers changed civilization-"

And then I turn around and walk back the way I came. I don't need to hear any more than that.

Later, I step into the house and I know it's going to be one of _those_ nights. Quinn and my sister are at the table eating Pucksketti (it's still the best thing Quinn makes) and salad.

On the kitchen counter there's a pile of bills, with an envelope on top: returned from the Post Office, "Addressee Unknown." And from the back of the house, a low moaning that makes me want to crack my head against the wall.

Damn. I hate it when she gets like this. It could be days-days of me having to pull her out of bed, push her into the shower, and drive her to work on my way to school. Or worse: days of her wandering around in a ratty bathrobe, just looking for a new place to crumple up and cry.

Or (this has only happened once, thank God) days of watching her lay still on the bed, dry-eyed but blank, and me having to search the bathroom for anything sharp.

Quinn's laughing loudly at something Jenna's said. She's trying to cover up the moaning, I think...and I'm grateful.

I get a glass of water, take it back there. She's on the bed, but dressed, so that's good. Grabbing a washcloth, I run it under cold water and lay it on her forehead. Finally, she stops making that horrible sound (reminds me of some Discovery Channel show I saw once, about a tribe from Africa and how the women of the tribe sit around wailing when somebody dies. I feel like a little piece of _me_ dies every time I hear my mom like that).

"Noah?" she croaks.

"Yeah, Ma, I'm here."

"Jenna?" At least she remembers. Sometimes, when she gets really bad, she forgets us unless we're standing in front of her.

"She's cool. Quinn made dinner." I go into the bathroom, tapping one of the little green capsules out of its container. "Here, Ma," I hold out the pill and water. She turns her head away. Crap. The worst part about these spells is getting her to take her meds. She says they just make her dizzy, and she can't sleep.

"Ma, come on. Jenna's got early choir practice tomorrow, and you _have_ to go to work. We got another letter from the bank."

_Asshole_. It's all I can think, and I grit my teeth to keep from screaming it. I can't believe he did this to her-_is still_ doing this to her. I can't believe she's still trying to find him.

Most of all, I can't believe he left me to deal with this shit. If I ever have a kid...wait. I _am_ having a kid. Doesn't sound like she's gonna be mine, though. Not that we've talked about it lately, but I saw the brochures Quinn got at her last doctor's appointment. It's her decision, I guess, and I get that giving the baby up might be the best thing. But if I had the chance, I'd do right by her-by both of them. I sure as hell would do better than _he_ did.

But I'm not gonna get the chance. Because Quinn thinks (and I quote) that I'm an idiot. An immature, videogame-obsessed, hair-challenged idiot. As far as she's concerned, the apple might not fall far from the tree; in fact, it might hit a root, split open, and lay there against the trunk, slowly rotting.

"Fine." I try not to slam the water glass down on the nightstand. I know I sound pissed...because I _am_ pissed. My mom looks at me for a long minute; then she holds out her hand for the pill, swallowing it quickly.

When I go back to the kitchen, dinner's been cleaned up, and Jenna's in her room. Quinn's gone back up to her place. (Funny-that room seems like it's always been hers, somehow.)

**-P-P-P-**

Things get better, all around. Kinda. I like dating Mercedes; we don't see too much of each other, 'cause she's super-busy with Cheerios and Glee, but she's funny, and she's got _chutzpah_, so talking to her is always interesting. As is her showdown with Santana. (I could've told her she has nothing to worry about where Lopez is concerned...but it was kinda cool to see them locked in a song-duel over me.) And Jacob ben Dweebasil is slinking around again, minus some of his pinhead peeps; I give the rest a good thrashing and reintroduce them to the slimy metal walls of their natural habitat.

Later that week, I see Mercedes walking down the hallway in her regular, fly-girl clothes. She's quit the Cheerios, because she didn't like who she was when she was with them. (She got something against popularity?) Then she dumps me, cool as you please-says she thought I had changed, thought I was _different_ (why the hell is that so great?); says she doesn't like the guy who throws kids into Dumpsters and takes their lunch money.

And the kicker? "I don't think _you_ like that guy either."

("Idiot" clangs in my head a couple hundred times.)

**-P-P-P-**

My mom is right, after all; it does grow back. I'm once again rocking a nice layer of black velvet, all over. Shave the sides, trim the top, and I'm ready to roll: mint-condition Puckasaurus, fully restored.

"Haven't seen you in awhile," the barber says as I walk in. "The usual?"

"Nope," I answer. "Buzz it-all over."

Maybe I don't need to be that guy any more.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

Song credit: "Pay Attention"; lyrics by Valeria Andrews and Ryan Toby

A/N: I first learned about orchard parties from my good friend Sarah's _magnum opus_, "Cheated Hearts"-thanks, Sarah! :)

Coming up next is "Dream On," from Quinn's POV. After that, I am toying with the idea of putting the episodes back into the order in which they were originally conceived-that is, "Funk," then "Theatricality," then "Journey." Any feedback or comments would be extremely helpful!


	6. Dream On

**A/N:** Despite my best efforts, this chapter took forever to write. Quinn is hardly in this episode, which made it somewhat challenging, but also allowed me to set up some things for later. Anyway, hope you enjoy...

**Dream On**

"Take out a piece of paper, and on that paper I want you to write down your biggest dream-a dream that means so much, you won't admit it, even to yourself."

_Keep her_ flashed through her head. _Keepherkeepherkeepherkeepher_.

No.

It did no good to write it down, and besides, she had no idea what this Mr. Ryan, in his throwback jacket and superior smirk, was going to do with it. So she wrote something safe, something expected.

Which was also, incidentally, true. _No stretch marks._

Because, really, it was only fair. If she couldn't keep the baby, why should she have to haul around a permanent reminder: silvery-purple streaks (at least, her mother's looked that way, before her laser surgery) that would mean no more bikinis, no more half-cut Cheerios uniforms...no way to obliterate, to erase, to forget.

Her stomach rippled as the baby rolled over, and remorse gripped her (how could she want to forget?). She was about to hatch through her words when the sharp sound of crumpling paper pulled her back into class. And there was Artie, crestfallen, watching his secret ambition careen off the gummy metal of the garbage can.

"..._His_ dream didn't work out. And Neither. Will. Yours."

Quinn narrowed her eyes at this jackass, lips twisted in distilled bitterness, come to trample their hopes. She felt a sudden fierce protectiveness, a desire to send him sprawling over the piano, or at least post insults on his Facebook page.

The trouble was...she knew he was right.

-0-0-0-

Shifting uncomfortably in the faux-leather chair, Quinn tried to stay focused on the information sheet she was supposed to be filling out. She glanced around the agency waiting room. A well-dressed couple sat a few chairs to her left; the woman clutched her husband's arm as he checked his BlackBerry. Every few seconds, her eyes shifted speculatively in Quinn's direction, as if calculating her willingness to give her baby up. Quinn started to feel a little like a prize heifer in calf, and contemplated picking her nose or something equally gross in hopes of deflecting the woman's attention. Instead, she resolutely returned to the form, filling in her name, address, due date.

When she looked up again, she caught the eye of a young girl (younger even than she was, Quinn thought). She slumped in her chair, an oversize concert t-shirt straining across her belly, her nail-bitten fingers toying with the row of silver hoops embedded in one ear.

The girl's boyfriend (Quinn assumed) sported a matching set of hoops through one eyebrow; a red-and-blue cobra tattoo snaked its way up his arm, fangs poised to bite through the torn edge of the boy's muscle shirt. His thumbs jabbed at the buttons of a black Gameboy, eyes focused narrowly on the tiny screen.

_She looks just like me_, Quinn thought. _Well, not really-that hair color is obviously CVS, and the red is horrible with her white skin...but her face. Sad and scared and alone...and the guy who did it cares more about his high score than how she feels_.

The girl started to bite one of her nonexistent nails. On its way to her mouth, her hand was intercepted by the boyfriend, who kissed the back of it and said softly, "It's OK." They locked eyes and the girl nodded slightly, resting her head on his shoulder. The Gameboy slid to the carpet, forgotten.

_Oh._

Quinn eyed the empty seat next to hers. Maybe she should've asked Puck to come. She had told him, after all, that he could still be a part of the decision. But he couldn't be involved if he wasn't around; she had hardly seen him lately, only heard the soft rumble of his engine and the slap of the screen door against his guitar case when he finally came home.

Where was he going, night after night? She had no idea. Not to Mercedes'-that was all over, which was somewhat of a relief. Oh, she had given them her blessing; she knew that it was about as harmless an entanglement as Puck could have, seeing that their chemistry was pretty much confined to the choir room.

Even so, she got a little tired of slapping a smile on her face, pretending to enjoy Puck's R & B conversion (she would never admit that it made her blood race, seeing him in that vest and hat) and Santana's last-ditch attempt to stake her claim.

But if Puck wasn't out with Mercedes, just where exactly was he spending all this time? She saw red, picturing him strumming his guitar on the edge of a strange bed, while long fingernails raked his back and a throaty chuckle (older women always had low voices, didn't they?) sounded from the pillow.

RIIIIPPPP! The ballpoint pen ground into the clipboard, tearing a jagged hole through the agency's logo ("Hand in Hand-Where Families are Made").

"Marnie Wilkins," called the receptionist.

The tattooed boy stood up, pulling Marnie to her feet. They walked hand-in-hand down the mahogany-panelled hallway; Quinn watched them until they turned a corner, out of sight.

Dropping the clipboard on the empty chair, she grabbed her purse and walked out. She just couldn't handle this right now.

-0-0-0-

When she walked into Puck's house that evening and saw the table set for three, her heart sank. She was just turning around to leave when a pair of skinny arms wrapped around her from behind.

"Quinnie!" shouted Jenna.

Quinn had forged a sort of relationship with Jenna, based mostly on playing the occasional card game and letting her experiment with Quinn's makeup when Mrs. Puckerman wasn't home. Quinn didn't mind; undisguised admiration had been pretty thin on the ground lately, and it felt good...even if it came from a nine-year-old. (Also, Jenna was becoming a pretty decent spy, more than willing to report on Puck's activities at home...on the rare occasions when he was there.)

"Hey, Munchkin!" Quinn replied, walking on into the kitchen. Mrs. Puckerman was at the sink, peeling carrots. "Can I do anything?" she offered.

Mrs. Puckerman gestured to the open box of Stouffer's lasagna on the counter. "No, it's all taken care of. Nothing fancy, I'm afraid." She rubbed the corner of one eye with her wrist.

Since Puck had taken to disappearing in the evening, dinners were a thrown-together affair. Sometimes on the weekends, he would make a big batch of something, and they would eat the leftovers for a few days. Mrs. Puckerman was a good cook herself (even if her dishes usually had weird-sounding names), but lately she seemed too exhausted to do anything more than push the buttons on the microwave.

Quinn hoped that this fatigue wasn't the precursor to another of Mrs. Puckerman's "spells." She would never forget that night, trying desperately to divert Jenna's attention from the echoing moans. It had been horrible. She understood for the first time all that Puck had heaped on his shoulders. He acted like he had nothing more to worry about than who he was going to drop in the Dumpster, or how to get out of doing that "lame-ass" book report.

But now Quinn knew better.

When they sat down to dinner, Mrs. Puckerman donned a prayer shawl and lit the candles, then recited the _motzi_. Quinn didn't mind the Hebrew prayers-they were kind of soothing, once you got used to them-but she felt lately like Puck's mother was reciting them _at_ her, as though to remind her that she wasn't part of their faith, their family. Mrs. Puckerman had to know that Quinn and Puck weren't together; there was no more giggling in the kitchen, no more furtive kisses in the hallway.

Did she know that the breakup had been Quinn's idea? What was it about being a mother that made you want to defend your offspring, even when they were making poor choices or acting like a jerk? Some evolutionary, keep-the-species-going thing? Whatever-it must be nice to have somebody on your side like that, no matter what.

But then she thought of her own mother, the night they threw her out...the way she looked down when Quinn pleaded with her, the way she let Quinn go without another word. Maybe _her_ natural instincts had been short-circuited by alcohol and fear of her husband...or maybe something was wrong, and she was missing that protection gene altogether.

_Oh, God._ Maybe Quinn was missing it, too...maybe, if she kept her daughter, she would let her down just when the little girl needed her most.

_No! No way._ Under the table, her arms wrapped around her belly. If she could keep this baby, she'd never let anything happen to her. Not if she could help it.

Except...what if the best way of protecting her was to let her go? To let another woman babyproof the house and buy a pink bike helmet and lay awake worrying about the school bully?

Quinn shut her eyes tight, but two fat tears squeezed under her lashes. Mrs. Puckerman and Jenna looked up in surprise as she stumbled from the room, choking out a muffled "Excuse me" on the way.

"Quinn! Are you all right?" Mrs. Puckerman called.

No. She wasn't.

-0-0-0-

"Quinn! It's nice to see you." Pastor Ross held her hand a second longer than usual. She looked up in surprise, and the other woman continued, "Listen...there's something I've been wanting to share with you. Do you have a minute?"

"Oh-um, sure." _Damn_, she thought, looking around. Maybe the other members of the church were uncomfortable with her being there, now that she was so big.

"Wonderful. Can you wait for me in my office? Just around the porch, to the left."

She opened the door to a tiny but comfortable room. A small couch sat across from a desk and chair; the desk was covered inch-deep in papers. Behind it rose a black bookcase whose bottom three shelves were stuffed with a variety of titles-not only Bibles, but self-help books, kids' picture books, and travel guides. Quinn thought she even recognized some Shakespeare.

The upper shelves held a vase of spring daisies, and some photographs. There was one of the minister and her husband, with their three kids-two young men in their twenties, and one girl about Quinn's age. Quinn had occasionally seen her at the service, sitting close to the front with her father.

The door chimed as the minister came in, and Quinn jumped a little, afraid to be caught prying. But Pastor Ross only said, "Make yourself comfortable, dear" and squeezed by her.

Quinn settled on the couch, and glanced up to meet the pastor's concerned gaze. "How are you, Quinn? I never get a chance to ask you-you're always in such a hurry after the service."

"I know...I'm-sorry." She wasn't sure what to say. "I usually have to work in the afternoons on Sunday, and then there's homework-"

"No need to apologize." Pastor Ross smiled, and the edges of her blue eyes crinkled kindly. "I'm sure you must be so busy, what with the baby coming soon. If you don't mind my asking, when are you due?"

"Six more weeks."

"And will you be keeping the baby?"

Quinn was silent. She found she couldn't answer the question. The lump in her throat was enormous; if she opened her mouth, she was sure she would howl.

"I'm sorry-am I being too personal?" Quinn shook her head, and the older woman went on, "Look-I just wanted you to know...I run a group, here at the church on Wednesday nights. For pregnant teenagers. I thought you might like to come."

"Are _they_ all giving their babies up?"

"Some of them are placing their babies for adoption, yes. Some of them will be raising their babies. Some haven't decided yet. The purpose of the meetings isn't to encourage these girls one way or another-just to support them, either way. It's a place to ask questions and talk about the things that are bothering you, or worrying you, or that make you scared."

That was it...the dam broke. She hadn't had anyone to talk to, for months-no one who knew or cared what she was going through. The thought of a room full of other girls, just like her, and this comfortable grey-haired woman who didn't judge or accuse-it was too much.

Her chest heaving, she felt Pastor Ross sit down beside her and put an arm around her. She cried for what seemed like a long time (she had cried so damn much lately-how could she have any tears left?).

"I know this is hard, Quinn, but you'll make it through-I promise."

Quinn wiped her face with a tissue. "No offense, Pastor Ross, but how could you know? You have a nice family, a whole congregation who loves you."

"Do you see that picture?" Pastor Ross pointed to a picture of a woman, probably in her forties, in a black cap and gown, a red stole around her shoulders. "That's my daughter."

"But-"

"She looks too old to be my daughter, doesn't she? I was fifteen when I got pregnant. My mother was so ashamed that she sent me to live with my aunt in Toledo for a whole year. My boyfriend's parents packed him off to a Bible college in Alabama. I don't even know what happened to him."

Quinn sniffed. "How did you find her?"

"Well, there was no such thing as an open adoption in 1968. I didn't get to meet her new parents, or find out anything about them-everyone thought it was better that way. But I was fortunate. When Michelle was 25, she decided to look for me. Luckily, I had come back to Lima and never left, so I was pretty easy to trace."

"Are you sorry you gave her up?"

The older woman sighed and shook her head. "It's hard to know, Quinn. It broke my heart at the time, but I can't imagine what it would have been like, for me or for her, if I had kept her... I missed a lot-her whole childhood-but at least I got to see her wedding. And that day-" she gestured to the photo-"she got her Ph.D. in Literature, and I was there."

She brushed Quinn's hair back from her blotchy, tear-stained face. "You're strong, Quinn. You don't even know how strong. No matter what you decide, you can _make_ it the right choice."

Quinn wasn't so sure about that, but a tiny corner of her crumpled self-worth smoothed itself out. "Thanks, Pastor Ross. I...I guess maybe I'll see you Wednesday."

"I hope so."

Quinn hoped so, too.

-0-0-0-

A few days later, she watched Tina dance with Mike Chang. Artie clapped hard, but she could see the ache behind his smile, and put a hand on his shoulder in sympathy.

That was the thing about dreams: sometimes you couldn't make them come true, no matter how hard you tried.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

**Next up...Puck's thoughts on "Funk." I've decided to revert to the originally-planned order of the episodes, as I think it makes more sense for the Quick storyline.**

**Thanks for reading! Please review if you have the time.**


	7. Funk

**A/N: **First of all, shout-outs to **tjcrowfoot, simply sarah, beesnbears, and MG, **faithful reviewers and fellow gleeks. You guys rock!

Second...The whole point of this piece was to take Quinn and Puck's story and explain everything the writers left out. So I've tried to stay canon up to now…but I just had to make a small tweak to the scene where Quinn sings "It's a Man's Man's Man's World," which I think might be the worst in Glee's whole _oeuvre_: offensive, unrealistic, and distracting. Soooo…I reimagined it a little bit.

OK, 'nuff rambling. Heeeere's Puck!

**Chapter Seven: Funk**

Damn Vocal Adrenaline.

They think they can just come over here, shake their puke-blue (what? You never saw someone throw up Gatorade before? It's awesome!) shoulders, and go all Charmin on our choir room?

Not on my watch, bitches! "Another One Bites the Dust," my ass—you'll be lucky if you can _eat_ dust when I'm through with you!

I show up at Finn's with my nunchucks, ready to go…but he reminds me that I'm still on probation for dunking Karofsky's head in the toilet after he flushed Artie's glasses.

So maybe personal violence isn't the answer. Property damage will have to do.

We sneak into Carmel High's student parking lot under cover of darkness. (Apparently, Crazy Corcoran makes them practice 'til, like, ten every night. Jesus. This is _high school_, honey, not Madison F'n Garden.) I swear to God it's like an SUV showroom—row upon row of shiny black Range Rovers. Who the hell gave a bunch of teenage twinkle-toes $60,000 cars?

The hissssss of air coming out of each tire is so damn satisfying, Finn even smiles at me once as we crouch from car to car, ninja-style.

When we pile back into my truck, I crack a beer and hand it to him.

"To a job well done," I say, clinking his can with mine.

"Yeah," he nods.

The ride back to his house is mostly quiet. He still pretty much hates me; even if he didn't, what do we have to talk about? (Hell—I'm not doing much talking, period. I've felt lately like if I open my mouth, God only knows what'll come out.)

So when he asks, "How's Quinn?", I'm so shocked I almost jump the curb. But I play it cool: Ice Puck.

"OK, I guess." Speaking of people I'm not really talking to…

"Have you guys decided? What you're gonna do about the baby, I mean?"

Um…see above, under "not talking."

"No," I tell him. Then somehow, it all comes rushing out: "Quinn still wants to give the baby away, I think. But I really wish she wouldn't. I could be a good dad—I _know_ I could."

Finn can't hide his "no way!" look.

I bang on the steering wheel in frustration—is it really so hard to believe that I could man up? In a good way, I mean? "I just want a chance…y'know?"

Finn shakes his head. "I _don't_ know. When it was mine—I mean, when I _thought_ it was mine—part of me couldn't wait to get the adoption papers signed. I loved her"—now I'm not sure whether he's talking about Quinn, or the baby—"but the whole thing scared the shit out of me. I felt like everything was closing in on me, like I'd be trapped in Lima, in my mom's basement, fighting with Quinn about changing diapers—forever."

There's a moment of silence. I'm pretty sure we're both thinking about how weird—and possibly prophetic—this conversation is. Then Finn says, so quietly I can hardly hear him, "You're braver than me, dude."

Thanks, bro.

-0-0-0-

Of course we get caught. (Who knew Carmel would have security cameras in their _parking lot_? Probably paid for by the same rich-ass Booster Clubbers who bought the Rovers.)

Coach Sylvester's gassing on about the first gay president, but all I can hear is one word:

EXPELLED.

Shit.

I'm just wondering how long I can hide this from my mom—'cause the alternative is a total meltdown when she finds out I've pretty much bazooka'ed my future—when Ms. Slave Driver says she'll let it go if we pay the damages.

WTF? Why isn't she grinding us under those spiky heels of hers? I catch a glance between her and Mr. Schue—looks like there's been some action there. Score one for Mr. S; she's pretty hot, in a witchy kinda way.

Anyway, it doesn't matter, 'cause Finn grabs hold of that second chance with both hands. (He's just as freaked about his mom finding out as I am, for a different reason: I'm pretty sure Carole would have his balls on a platter for this.) He swears we'll get jobs…whatever it takes.

I wanna say, "Hey, patsy, speak for yourself—I got stuff to do!" But I know I don't have a choice. If I want a shot at proving myself to Quinn, I can't screw this up.

Any more than I already have.

-0-0-0-

"You _said_ funk was about soul and anger. I have plenty of both. Look at me—look at my _life_. I'm furious!"

She's not even looking my way, but I know she's pissed at _me_. _I'm_ the idiot who said "trust me." _I'm_ the reason her life sucks. Because of me, because I wanted her so bad I couldn't think straight, because I couldn't believe that, after a month of near-gagging watching her hold hands with Finn, she was in _my_ bed—because I thought if I stopped or got up or even reached for my wallet, she'd disappear, like some awesome dream that gets cut off by the alarm—

Because of me, she'll never be the same.

-0-0-0-

In case you're wondering, I'm never gonna be the same, either. Especially once people see me in this shit-brown apron, searching for Pepto-colored Kleenex holders, and trying like hell not to cold-cock the customers.

_In the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey  
__Butane in my veins and I'm out to cut the junkie  
__With the plastic eyeballs, spray-paint the vegetables  
__Dog food stalls with the beefcake pantyhose_

_Kil the headlights and put it in neutral  
__Stock car flaming with a loser and the cruise control  
__Baby's in Reno with the vitamin D  
__Got a couple of couches, sleep on the love seat_

_Soy un perdador  
__I'm a loser baby, why don't you kill me_

That pretty much sums up my life right now—a bunch of bizarre images stuck randomly together. Shit keeps happening, to me or because of me, but it's like I don't have control over any of it: I can't choose to stop working at Freaks'n'Things, I don't get to decide whether to keep the baby or not, I can't make Quinn give me another shot.

OMFG—is this how my mom feels? Like she's watching everyone's happiness in slow motion around her, and all she's got to look forward to is a life painted various shades of crap? Am _I_ gonna be like that too?

(Yep, the pity party's in full swing now. Anyone care to join me?)

-0-0-0-

The next day, I sit in the dark auditorium, watching Quinn sing out her funk. She's ripe and round and freakin' gorgeous…and something has changed. She's mad, yeah, but now she's workin' it, using her anger and frustration to move people. I see the girls who've come to watch her, ten big bellies sitting in the front row, fists raised like they're cheering her on, like she's one of their own.

So she's found somebody (or ten somebodies). That's good, I guess.

And _I_ feel pretty good, doing my funk number with Finn and Mercedes. Maybe I _can_ turn things around. Maybe Finn and I can be friends again. Maybe life doesn't have to bite it quite so completely.

That night, for the first time in a week, I take my guitar and head over to Marty's. I apprenticed in his pool business—he's taught me everything I know, including stuff he probably shouldn't, like how to recognize a plum MILF. He also has a killer recording setup in his basement. Not sure where he got some of it, but whatevs.

I'm able to lay down five tracks in three hours, and I'm feelin' it, like the tide is turning, the funk isn't gonna get me this time.

When will I learn?

"Puck."

She's standing at the top of the garage stairs as I'm creeping into the house, holding the screen door still so the creak doesn't wake my mom and Jenna.

I don't remember the last time she said my name.

I jump, and the door slams shut, vibrating on its rusty hinges. She clatters down the stairs while I pull myself together, try to stop the wild rhythm of my heart.

"I need to talk to you." Her voice is soft; I think, maybe she wants to talk about the baby, what we're gonna do. (It's midnight on a Thursday, kind of a weird time for a chat, but pregnancy makes women nuts, right?)

And suddenly, out of nowhere, hope just explodes inside of me, and I want to tell her everything: about the stuff I've been doing at Marty's, about how strong and amazing she is, and how her singing juiced me back into facing things Puck-on.

"Q—"

"Wait." She holds up her hand, and in the light from her open door, I see one tear run down her cheek, drowning my spark of bonehead optimism. I can feel it fizzle and sputter and die.

"I'm moving in with Mercedes."

Of course she is. Of course she's not going to stay in a room over the garage, in a house with a little girl, a depressed mom, and the dickwad who made her pregnant through his own selfishness. Of course.

She sniffs once, then turns around and hurries back up the stairs. The door bangs shut behind her, leaving me standing in the pitch-black like the prize idiot I am.

I want to go after her, but I don't. Instead, I punch a hole right through the middle of my guitar case. I feel it splinter, feel the steel strings shred my knuckles, once on the way in, and again when I pull my hand out.

Hi, I'm Puck. I'm sixteen, and my life blows. Now and forevermore.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

**Next up, Quinn's take on "Theatricality"…and then, the Big Finish!**

**Thanks for sticking with me through this long journey, and my sporadic updates. And just a word about reviews…on average, I'm only getting about one per 100 readers, and especially as we head into "Journey," which will most likely go heavily AU, I need some more feedback! So please, please consider punching that button and letting me know what you think.**

**Muchas gracias!**


	8. Theatricality

**A/N: **I find myself once more in the position of having to apologize for an unconscionable update delay…life strikes again. Thanks so much to all of you who've hung in there!

Just a housekeeping note: for continuity purposes, I have inserted some of the dialogue from the actual episode. I know you Gleeks will recognize which words are mine and which are Ryan Murphy's. :)

**Chapter Eight: Theatricality**

"If we get caught, are we gonna have to go to jail?" Quinn whispered, as she, Rachel, and Mercedes filed into the back of Carmel High's auditorium. She really didn't see why they were bothering. Vocal Adrenaline's attempt to "Go Gaga" was clearly just a reaction to their funk-out at the hands of New Directions last week.

The red lace was a good call, though—it masked their soulless faces. Quinn could see Ms. Corcoran getting more and more irritated with her group; finally, she decided that showing was better than telling. She launched into "Funny Girl," and Quinn checked her watch, relieved that their recon mission was just about done. She might have time to squeeze in her math homework before heading to work.

Motioning to Mercedes, she heaved herself out of the chair…and noticed Rachel, staring at the stage, literally on the edge of her seat. As the other girls watched, Rachel crept down the rows of seats and up the stairs, stage left.

Quinn's impatient foot-tapping stopped abruptly at Rachel's words:

"Ms. Corcoran? I'm Rachel Berry. I'm your daughter."

-Q-Q-Q-

She flopped on the bed, exhausted. Standing for four hours at a time was getting harder and harder; by the end of each shift, she felt like all the blood in her body had found its way to her feet.

Putting a pillow under her swollen ankles, she looked around the room with a certain sense of satisfaction. She had been at Mercedes' for a week now, and overall, she thought, the transition had gone well.

Mercedes' parents—Dr. Jones, a dentist, and his wife, an ER nurse—had been incredibly welcoming, and the room was very nice. It wasn't too masculine, even though it had belonged to Mercedes' brother Jamal. The white matelassé coverlet on the queen bed lightened the midnight-blue walls; and if there had been a last-minute rush to strip the room of pinup posters and videogame equipment so Quinn could move in, it didn't show.

In contrast to the Jones', Mrs. Puckerman had clearly been relieved to see her go…though Jenna cried, soothed only by Quinn's promise to visit the following weekend. Puck himself had wordlessly loaded all her things into his truck, taking especial care with the TV and ultrasound photo. All the way to Mercedes' house, Quinn kept expecting him to stop the car in protest, but he didn't, just drove silently on, carried her stuff in and beat a quick retreat.

At least they hadn't fought.

Anyway, now she was here, with a real bed, matching furniture—even her own bathroom—in the midst of a bustling, cheerful family. Somebody was always laughing, and Mercedes and her older sister played merciless pranks on each other; dinner was loud, but merry, and Quinn hardly had the time or space to be lonely.

Besides, having people with some medical training around was comforting, especially since the nightmares began: her water breaking as she stood at the white board in Geometry; the baby, born without toes; giving birth to a plastic troll doll with a neon green mohawk while Puck stood by, laughing. Quinn wasn't about to share these visions with Mercedes' parents, but it was good to know they were there if anything really went wrong.

And she and 'Cedes were growing closer too—they had stayed up late last Saturday night, watching a marathon of _The Nanny_ and whispering together about Mercedes' crush on a boy in her History class. Quinn hadn't had a close girlfriend since she started cheerleading in sixth grade, when air kisses, false compliments, and backstabbing took the place of trust and honesty. Mercedes' mom had given Quinn a brochure advertising a childbirth class at her hospital next weekend; she was thinking about asking Mercedes to be her labor coach.

All in all, it had been a good move. And if it didn't feel quite like "home" yet, if she sometimes missed the quilt-covered futon and the tiny refrigerator, she was sure that would change. Eventually.

-Q-Q-Q-

"So these were the couples that matched most closely with your request sheet." Laurel, her caseworker, handed Quinn five file folders. "Do you want anything to drink? Tea, or water?"

She shook her head. Part of her was dreading this…but part of her couldn't wait to dive into those folders, couldn't wait to see what sort of people might love her daughter as much as she did.

Laurel seemed to sense her suppressed eagerness. "OK," she smiled, glancing at the unoccupied seats around the table. "I could sit with you, if you like."

"No, I'm fine," Quinn replied. She could do this on her own. What choice did she have, after all?

Two hours later, regret at her refusal of Laurel's offer set in. Somehow, she had hoped that the ideal couple would pop right out of their manila casing, arms outstretched to welcome Quinn's baby into their lives.

But the array of information contained in each couple's file was bewildering: resumes, medical profiles, photos. Apparently, the agency conducted a thorough background check on each applicant, including DMV and tax records. Though Quinn didn't have access to these, she was still astonished at the amount of information people were willing to hand over for the chance to raise someone else's child.

There were personal letters, too—a passionate plea from each couple: why they were trying to adopt, and what they hoped for their future family. Ironically, after she had read a few, the letters started sounding the same. She kept waiting for one to reach out and grab her, to shout, "This! This is the family you want!", but none did.

How, then, to choose? Should she pick the best-educated—the pediatric surgeon and her physicist husband, who met as undergraduates at Stanford? The wealthiest (or at least, the couple who lived in the "best" neighborhood: a gated community more exclusive, even, than her parents')? The most picturesque, whose photo showed them amongst fallen leaves, while a golden retriever bounded by?

Or maybe—just to spare her daughter the trauma of looking different from her parents—she should decide on the ones who most resembled she and Puck?

Quinn laid her head down on the smooth walnut. This was an impossible responsibility. How did you pick someone to be accountable for something so precious? How could she be sure that they would tuck her baby in every night, would read her stories, would safeguard her dreams? How could you _know_ that you were choosing the _very best_ parents she could have…if she couldn't have you?

The questions cried out, one after another, in her head…but there was no answer. Walls, table, empty chairs reflected only a waiting silence.

Maybe she should have asked Puck to come.

-Q-Q-Q-

Then again, maybe not.

When he first came up to her locker, she couldn't stop a small jolt of happiness. Her smile came out of nowhere…but faded as soon as he opened his mouth.

"Jack Daniels."

"What?" At first she was just confused—then it got worse. Much worse.

"It's a really good name. It's a _rock-star_ name."

He couldn't be serious. Was he purposely trying to make her angry? "You want to name our daughter 'Jack Daniels'? She's a _girl_."

He waved a hand dismissively. "OK, fine, whatever. _Jackie_ Daniels."

It didn't look like he was playing with her: there was that tone in his voice that bespoke a _really good idea_. She couldn't say, exactly, why she boiled over all of a sudden; it wasn't like she expected better from him…but she said, slowly and distinctly, "The name is not the point. I told you this. I'm giving up the baby so I don't have to do this with you." And then, in her best HBIC voice: "This is good for you. Now you can go off…and be a rock star yourself."

Slamming her locker door, she stalked off, pretending she didn't see his hooded, hurt look, the way he hunched over a little, as though he'd been punched in the gut.

Yeah. She was definitely on her own with this decision.

-Q-Q-Q-

When Mr. Schue announced that New Directions were going to do their own version of Gaga, Quinn was _not_ enthused. She'd never really liked the music, and the idea of squeezing this blown-up version of herself into some crazy outfit made her nauseous. But then they got Mercedes' sister on board. A student at Columbus College of Art & Design, Alisha took their costumes on as an independent study project. Between Kurt's flamboyant imagination, Brittany's affinity with the absurd, and Alisha's sewing and structural skills, they created a kick-ass Gaga Glee wardrobe.

Quinn loved her fuschia dress with the metallic accents. It actually hid her baby bump pretty effectively, and she was shocked how sexy she felt, singing the throaty strains of "Bad Romance."

Not everybody was so enamored of the Glee Club transformation, however. Later that day, Quinn found Kurt in the girls' room, attempting to slough bright pink sugar syrup off of his white wig.

"Who was it this time?" she sighed, bringing him some paper towels.

"Who else?" He shook the wig, spraying slushie all over the sink and mirror. It looked like a florescent murder scene. "Apparently, they don't appreciate creative expression."

"They wouldn't know creative expression if it spit in their face…bigoted idiots!" Quinn started to wipe down Kurt's silver lame shoulders with more force than strictly necessary.

"Ouch!" Kurt shrugged off her ministrations. "Quinn, darling, I appreciate your standing up for me…but honestly, I'm so used to it, it hardly even bothers me anymore. Someday, I'll be on Broadway, and they'll still be delivering the _Lima News_—the one with my picture on the front page."

Quinn tossed the pink-stained paper towels into the trash. "You're probably right."

Neither of them mentioned the double irony contained in this conversation: First, that once upon a time, Quinn had counted the "bigoted idiots" among her most ardent admirers, drones in the service of the Queen Bee.

And second? That Karofsky and Azimio weren't the only ones facing a future shuttered and blank as the failed strip mall down the road.

-Q-Q-Q-

They sat, baby bumps pressing them into the sagging but comfortable couches in the church basement, as Pastor Ross ushered a girl of about seventeen through the basement door. Honey-colored curls spilled down the girl's back; Quinn felt a quick shot of envy at her trim waist, shown to advantage in skinny jeans and a tight sweater.

"Evening, girls," Pastor Ross said cheerfully. "Tonight we have some special guests. This is Tara, who placed her daughter for adoption four months ago. She's here to talk to you about her experience."

"Hey," Tara said casually as she folded herself into a chair, backback thumping to the floor beside her.

There was a moment of awkward silence—were they supposed to ask questions? Because if so, Quinn had about a thousand—but then Pastor Ross suggested gently, "Why don't you start with your decision, Tara?"

"Well…I knew from the start there was no way I could keep the baby. My family doesn't have much money—my dad's working two jobs as it is, and my mom got laid off right before I found out I was pregnant. Besides, I've worked my whole life to get into a good college: AP classes, piano, student government, volunteering. I just—" she looked down at her hands—"I couldn't give all that up."

"What about the father? Did he support your decision?"

Tara gave a little bark of laughter. "Support it? I guess so, considering he wanted me to have an abortion in the first place. Said if people found out he'd knocked me up, it'd ruin his chances of being valedictorian." The group of girls rolled their eyes in sympathy—guys could be such jerks. "Yeah. I dumped him pretty quick…and ran against him for ASB Vice President. I won, too."

Pastor Ross tried to hide a smile as Tara tossed her head. "Can you tell us how you chose the adoptive parents?"

"I was going to go through an agency, but then my mom told me about a woman from her old job who's been trying to get pregnant, like, forever. She and her husband had spent thousands on fertility stuff, and it still didn't work. Ironic, huh? I mean, all it cost me was a broken condom." Tara paused while her audience giggled. "Anyway, I met with this couple, and they were just really cool…and their house felt just right for a baby—kind of cozy, y'know? I could tell they'd be good to a little girl, and they offered to let me see her whenever I wanted."

Quinn raised her hand tentatively. "Did it work out OK, giving her up? I mean—are you…happy?"

Tara's eyes glazed a little, but she sat up straight, defiant almost. "Yeah, it worked out. I'm going to OU next year—first one in my family. And Caroline's doing great." She touched her flat stomach lightly, shoulders slumping. "Sometimes, in the night, I miss her. But I did the right thing."

A knock sounded on the basement door; Pastor Ross checked her watch. "That will be our other speaker…she's a little early."

"Oh—I gotta go." Tara stood up quickly, slinging her backpack across her shoulders. They all turned to see another young girl, navigating the steep stairs with a little boy on one hip and a Winnie the Pooh diaper bag on the other.

The group surged forward, cooing over the baby, but Quinn hung back long enough to see Tara's face crumple before she slipped up the stairs and out the door.

The new arrival, Julie, settled her son on the worn beige carpet and sank into the nearest chair. "This is Sam," she gestured wearily. The boy looked around at them with wide eyes, then stuck his thumb in his mouth and clambered onto his mother's lap.

Quinn's heart tugged at the sight—silky blond curls snuggled up under the girl's chin…the way his free hand sought the end of her ponytail, rubbing it between his chubby fingers.

"How are things going?" prompted the pastor.

Julie sighed. "OK, I guess. Since I got my GED, I've been working in my mom's office, while Sam goes to daycare. And I registered for real estate courses."

"That sounds good."

"It is…most of the time. Not so much this week," she said, leaning back. "Sam got a cold, so he couldn't go to daycare—which was kind of ridiculous, considering he caught it at daycare in the first place—so I couldn't go to work. And then he was up all night sniffling, so _that_ was fun."

"It never ends with little ones, does it?" the pastor asked sympathetically.

Julie ran a finger down her son's soft cheek. "Nope, it never does…and I miss my friends. They're all talking about prom and graduation and college—they have everything ahead of them. For me, it's like I fast-forwarded through all that fun stuff. And nobody wants to hear about Sam's sleep problems and or tantrums. Not that I blame them," she added wryly.

"I know it's hard, Julie, but you're doing a great thing—"

Sam chose that moment sit up on his knees and pat Julie's cheeks. "Mamma," he announced with satisfaction.

"—And it looks like Sam appreciates it!" Pastor Ross finished. They all laughed. "Does anyone have a question for Julie?"

One of the girls jumped in. "What about Sam's dad? Are you—with him?"

Julie smirked. "I _was_. When I got pregnant, he swore he'd be there—he'd take care of me and the baby…he even wanted to get married. But when Sam was two weeks old, he left; said he couldn't handle all the crying, and not getting any sleep. I couldn't handle it either—and don't get me started about breastfeeding—but what was I supposed to do? He moved back in with his mom, and they take Sam every other weekend. He _does_ pay child support, which is more than I can say for a lot of guys in this situation." She looked around the room; her eyes met Quinn's briefly, and Quinn was shocked by the bitterness she saw in them. "I know some of you are with guys who've promised you what Troy promised me. And they might come through…but if I were you, I'd be ready to do it all on my own."

Which was, among several other things, exactly what Quinn was afraid of.

-Q-Q-Q-

She spent most of that night laying awake. Indecision pressed down on her til she could hardly breathe; there was no easy choice, only potential pain on one side, and potential disaster on the other.

She had been over this so many times that the arguments swirled together into one suffocating mess. She could keep the baby, give up the future she'd planned, perhaps collapse under a burden she wasn't ready for.

Or, she could give her up, to a couple who _were_ ready—more than ready—desperate, even. Her daughter would be like the last piece of a puzzle, the one that brings the whole picture together.

The practical choice was clear. But it meant that Quinn would give up a whole lifetime of memories, of first birthdays and goodnight kisses and "Mama." She thought of Ms. Corcoran, who had missed her daughter's first sixteen years. And she thought of Tara's face when Julie came in with Sam.

So she knew what she probably _should_ do. She just wasn't sure she _could_.

-Q-Q-Q-

She'd already kind of forgiven him.

OK, not really. It was more that, in the scheme of things, his stupid comment about naming their daughter Jackie Daniels faded into insignificance, simply couldn't compete with the larger worries that crowded her thoughts, day and night.

So it came as a surprise when he walked into Glee and announced he had something to say, something for _her_, and he wanted them all to hear it.

"At first I didn't really get this 'theatrical' assignment, bein' larger than life and puttin' it all out there, 'cause I'm kinda like that all the time. That's how my dad was, too. He was too busy bein' all crazy and rock'n'roll to be there for his kids, and you know what? I didn't care that my dad was a badass. I just wanted him to be there, and he never was. And then I learned all this Kiss stuff, and while Jackie Daniels is a great name for a powerboat or somethin', it's just not right for a baby girl. So if my Kissmates will help me out, I think I've got a better idea."

_Beth I hear you calling  
__But I can't come home right now  
__Me and the boys are playing  
__And we just can't find the sound_

_Just a few more hours  
__And I'll be right home to you  
__I think I hear them calling  
__Oh Beth what can I do  
__Beth what can I do_

Quinn wished, for a moment, that she wasn't wearing her Gaga costume as tears fought their way through her feathery lashes.

_You say you feel so empty  
__That our house just ain't our home  
__I'm always somewhere else  
__And you're always there alone_

_Just a few more hours  
__And I'll be right home to you  
__I think I hear them calling  
__Oh Beth what can I do  
__Beth what can I do_

The name was for the baby, she knew; but the words were for her. He was making a promise he didn't even think she wanted, a promise to be there for her. She realized then he had spent the past seven months trying—trying to man up, trying to take care of her, trying to become the kind of father he'd never had. Yes, he'd made some spectacular mistakes. Yes, he'd let her down, once or twice.

And yes…he might find that, after all, he wasn't cut out for the long haul.

But she had made mistakes, too. And he was here, now, singing for her, and for their little girl.

"I know you're giving her up, but before you do, I think you should name her Beth. If you'll let me, I'd really like to be there when she's born. I'd really like to meet her."

Yes, she could give him that. She could, at least, give him that.

-Q-Q-Q-

Quinn rounded the corner, still in a pleasant fog from Puck's song, and stopped short. Something odd was going on: Kurt headed into the boys' bathroom, followed quickly by two broad backs in letterman jackets. The BANG! of the door made her jump; she turned on her flats and ran, hand on her stomach, back to the choir room.

Gasping, she made her way over to Puck and grabbed his arm. His wig shifted over one eye as he turned to her, afraid: "Are you OK? Is it the baby?"

"No—" she gulped a breath. "No—sorry. It's Kurt…in the bathroom…Azimio and Karof—"

Puck went flying down the hallway before she could finish her sentence. She waited for the tightening across her belly to ease, and then followed along with the rest of the club.

There was Finn, standing like some bizarre Viking god in a red rubber gown, defending his friend. And Puck right behind him, in full Kiss regalia, pledging his own support of the boy he used to throw into the Dumpster.

It brought tears to her eyes—again—to see the grudging gratitude on Kurt's face, and to feel the happy, bonding current that passed amongst them all with Mr. Schue's battle cry: "To Regionals!"

She hung back a little, wiping her face with a pink-gloved hand. When she looked up, there he was, half-smile nearly buried underneath his pancake makeup.

"That was pretty great," she commented.

"Yeah, well—gotta stick together, right? Twelve Musketeers and all that crap."

"One for all," she agreed. Then, in a rush—"So…I have this class on Saturday, this Lamaze thing, it's supposed to teach you how to breathe during labor…and you said you wanted to be there when she's born so, maybe…maybe you should be my coach?"

One star-lined eyebrow quirked. "A _breathing_ class? Man, that is SO lame…" But his grin split right through the white paint, and he touched her hand, lightly.

It was a start.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

**Next Up: **The big finale...Quinn's POV, Puck's POV, AU-it's gonna be crazy...and hopefully it will be finished before the New Year. :)


End file.
